


Chivalry is Cold

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Series: 12 Days of Ficmas 2018 [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-01 09:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16762630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: for the prompt "I was cold, so you gave me your jacket but now you’re cold too. So I suggest we hug instead"





	Chivalry is Cold

Clarke’s not cold.

Cold people let their teeth chatter, and Clarke refuses to do that, so clearly she isn’t cold. She’s just...setting back two years of orthodontia by how tightly she’s clenching her jaw.

“Normal people are at home, nursing hangovers and having hot chocolate,” she grumbles, “but we have to be friends with a maniac who kicks off the New Year by doing the Polar Bear Plunge.”

Beside her, Bellamy chuckles, his laugh coming out as a puff of air on the freezing morning. “It was your idea to support Harper.”

“Yeah, but couldn’t I support her spiritually? From afar? Namely somewhere inside, where it’s not 17 degrees?”

Another puff of air from her roommate and he shakes his head. “That’s really not how moral support works, Clarke.”

“Well it should,” she says, kicking the sand on the beach.

The cold sand, on the cold beach, on the cold day, but she’s definitely not cold.

Because if she’s cold, that means Bellamy was right, and she should’ve worn a heavier coat.

She sneaks a glance at him out of the corner of her eyes.

Awfully inconsiderate of him to look this good, on such a miserable day. His nose is a little red from the ocean chill, but his eyes are clear and alert. The sun’s out, and though it’s not doing much to warm the day, it’s dancing off his curls in a ridiculously attractive way. His hands are stuffed in the pocket of his jeans, and Clarke notices a couple of passerbys admiring the classic Bellamy shoulder-to-waist ratio.

Not that she hasn’t noticed.

Every day, if she’s being honest.

So she has a crush on her roommate; lots of people do. Then again, lots of people don’t live with Bellamy Blake, and his stupid freckles, and pretty eyes, and abs.

It’s 2019; who even has abs anymore?

Clarke’s inner diatribe has distracted her from her cold-is-a-mindset-and-I-defy-it boycott, and Bellamy frowns a bit when she shivers violently.

“Don’t say it,” Clarke mutters, kicking the sand again.

“What?”

“I told you so.”

“I wasn’t—” Bellamy sighs exasperatedly. “I wasn’t going to say that. Are you cold?”

“Of course I’m cold; it’s the dead of winter on the East Coast at the crack of dawn and...what are you doing?”

Halfway through her rant, Bellamy had unbuttoned his coat. Underneath he’s wearing a coffee-colored wool sweater—which is one of her favorite sweaters of his, not that she has a ranking or anything—which is lovely and all, but the beach is literally freezing.

“Taking off my jacket,” he says helpfully.

Clarke narrows her eyes. “Were you not listening; it’s cold?”

“I _was_ listening, and _you’re_ cold,” Bellamy says, emphasis heavy. “Now take this.”

He holds out his coat to her and Clarke blinks at it. “What? I can’t take that.”

“Yeah, you can,” he says, even as he squints a little against a gust of wind that rolls over the dunes.

“Bellamy—”

“It’s already off, okay, just put the damn thing on.”

She takes the jacket.

And, alright, yes, it’s much warmer. It’s a heavier material and it’s longer than her Patagonia fleece, coming down to the middle of her thighs. And it’s warm from being wrapped around Bellamy, which is nice for a whole assortment of different reasons.

All of which she could enjoy, if it wasn’t for the fact that it meant Bellamy is now halfway to hypothermia.

His jaw is set determinedly and she can see the ridges of his knuckles through his jeans, from where he’s clenched his hands into fists. And as great as he looks in that sweater, and as sweet as it was for him to give her his coat, she’s not a monster.

But she’ll be a popsicle if she gives his coat back.

But he’ll be a popsicle if she doesn’t.

The solution really shouldn’t be that they’re both halfway frozen, but Clarke really can’t think of another way; she unbuttons the coat. “If you get pneumonia, Octavia will literally never forgive me.”

“You’re going to be cold,” Bellamy says, genuinely confused, bless him.

“I should’ve brought a different jacket.”

He purses his lips when she doesn’t stop, looking increasingly distressed. “What, and I’m supposed to just stand here?”

“You can stand over there, if you like,” Clarke says, pulling her arms free of the coat, and nodding to another dune on the beach.

Bellamy looks like he wants to protest, but then something passes behind his eyes, and she feels him watching her as she peels off the coat.

He takes it from her, shrugs into it, still watching her carefully. Then he reaches for her.

Clarke doesn’t really register what’s happening until Bellamy’s arms are around her back, and hers are linked around him. He’s held the edges of the coat open so she’s pressed up against the wool of his sweater, and Clarke clears her throat, trying to think of a reason why she shouldn’t just lean into him, and she comes up blank. So she gives up, nestles her cheek into the warm knit of his sweater and she swears his shoulders relax some.

“Thanks,” she mumbles into his chest.

“Sure,” he says, and Clarke tightens her arms around him. Because Bellamy has a great voice, everyone knows this, but she likes how it sounds when she can feel it rumbling out of his chest.

The beach isn’t cold anymore.

Her shoulders are still hunched, and she can still feel the string of harsh wind through her jeans. Bellamy’s hair is still blown by new gusts, and he stills squints at the air. She can see his breath in little puffs of heat, and a child next to them is jumping up and down to get blood flowing. But through her jacket, she can feel Bellamy rubbing little circles on her back, and through his sweater, she can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Deep breaths, long breaths, careful, like maybe he’s holding it just a bit, and Clarke could stay like this forever.

A cheer goes up from somewhere, and then there’s a sound like a stampede, and people are running. Bellamy and Clarke pick out the warm blonde of Harper’s hair as she sprints with the swarm of people. Somewhere closer to the water, Monty’s waiting with a giant towel and a blankets for once Harper’s done.

The crowd is yelling encouragement and it’s drowned out by the squeals and screams of shock as the runners dip into the freezing water. Someone has an American flag, someone is blaring Bruce Springsteen from bluetooth speakers, someone with a megaphone is announcing how much they’ve raised for different charities. 

But if Clarke is honest, it’s like she’s apart from it, watching from a distance. It’s like a snow globe, unfolding and crazy, contained in her hands, and she’s just watching it shake. In Bellamy’s arms, she’s steady.

"This okay?"

She hears Bellamy's voice like crystal, next to her cheek, over her head, over her. She pulls back a bit to look up at him, tilting her head back into the sunlight. Bellamy is so close to her, his brown eyes soft, sweet, earnest, brow furrowed ever so slightly. She loves the dance of freckles across his cheeks, wonders if she could count them from this close. Hopes one day she'll get the chance. 

Clarke smiles, has to, her mouth curving upward and a wave of delight washes over her when Bellamy's does the same. 

"More than that, actually," she says quietly, tightening her arms just for emphasis, and Bellamy's smile grows impossibly. 

"Yeah?" he asks, something bashful and endearing on his voice. 

Clarke goes back into his chest, loving the warmth and breadth of him. "Yeah." 


End file.
